I have worked in some pretty weird places.
Not, granted, as weird as the economist's, which, while completing his PhD included a sulphuric acid vat he was supposed to be cleaning, in which he slept away his afternoons.
This goes a long way to explaining much about him.
All my previous jobs have been indoors, some offices more salubrious than others, but all were the natural habitat of particular personality types.
Just as birdlife came to fill every niche of predator-free, pre-colonial New Zealand, so, too, the wildlife of the office workspace occurs in a colourful array of odd birds.
Now that I am self-employed and work alone in a downtown dining room, a cat on my left and the result of its most recent indigestion on my right, I am forced to impersonate all manner of office fauna to create that comfortingly familiar environment.
For example:The angry, balding short man: This is easy.
I am short and every time I stand next to Sarah from the Regent, still pretty wild about it.
While I'm not balding, I am getting hairier, just as good a reason to fly into incomprehensible rages about the state of the bathroom.
The bully: Weren't you supposed to have that finished last week? Lisa, listen to me, do you really want this job?
You had better realise, Missy, that there are plenty of others waiting to take your place on that dining room chair.
Better buck your ideas up.
Crying are we? Pathetic.
The office bitch: What are you wearing? Is that last year's dressing gown?
Ew. I suppose it's hard to lose the baby weight when you're so housebound.
She's 17?
Oh dear, you have let yourself go.
And your boyfriend's so cute isn't he, don't you ever worry ...
The office psycho: Yes, I have to wash the dishes before I can start writing for the day.
No, it can't wait until you come home.
Then I have to check the door on to the deck is locked so that ginger tom from next door doesn't come in again.
Have I checked it? I'll check it again, shall I? Now, are all my pens lined up? This one's not.
What do you mean by obsessive compulsive? This is part of my process.
I am not insane; don't you have a lecture on taking away people's right to medical care to give? Is the door on to the deck locked?The office sleaze: You've got the job.
You're welcome.
I thought you gave a really great interview, actually.
Good thing the desk wasn't see-through.
Joking! You're a very attractive woman though, are they real? Joking, joking, hey can't a guy give a woman he works with a compliment?(Truth be told, and try as I may, I just can't seem to sexually harass myself.
Just not that desperate, I suppose.)The stirrer: Well, actually, I think you'll find the average New Zealand writer makes about $20 a week.
And that's the really good ones.
The flirt: Oh, what big strong thighs you have! No, that's not working either.
Working from home has its challenges.
The telephone must be answered, the Siamese cat's latest disaster cleaned up, the housework becomes an excuse for transference (since I have been working from home the place has never been tidier), and the teenager wants money and feeding.
The economist, of the Economists' Home for Wayward Girls, who is bankrolling this experience (you didn't really think I earned enough to keep myself in the manner to which I had accustomed myself did you?) doesn't want much, other than the book I am at present writing to become a bestseller.
No pressure then.
Some days, I just want to fire myself.
THE diary
Today: Saints and Sinners tour, Chicks Hotel - who isn't a little bit of both?
Friday: Last Night of the Proms, town hall - grab a picnic and some bubbles, frock up and pretend Britannia still rules the waves.
The ticket: Id Fashion, get yours now and make sure it sells out (you don't want it moving to Auckland, do you?)
February 25: The Royal New Zealand Ballet - From Here to There, Regent Theatre: tutu much!
All of February: A good month to fall in love.
